


Warmed Up

by fuzipenguin



Series: Razor's Edge [6]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: BDSM, Chastity Device, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, M/M, Open Relationships, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 20:31:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15736821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/pseuds/fuzipenguin
Summary: Jazz has been bad so Bluestreak is going to lock away something precious of his.





	Warmed Up

**Author's Note:**

> destinyswindow said: If you're still taking kink prompts how about Chastity with Jazz/Bluestreak? Please and thank you?

                “Hmm, yes, I think that will be perfect,” Bluestreak said, gently stroking Jazz’s interface panel. The transformation seams were warm from the newly applied sealant and Jazz jerked at the light touch. “Does it hurt?”

                Jazz looked down at Bluestreak kneeling between his legs and mutely shook his head. His visor was overbright and his hands had clenched around the edge of the berth so firmly that the cables in his fingers stood out in relief. But he had held remarkably still throughout the entire application process.

                “Good. I have no wish to hurt you. Well… this time,” Bluestreak remarked, pushing himself to his feet. “Up.”

                Jazz shot upright and fell into Bluestreak’s outstretched arms when they were offered, snuggling close to his side. “How long, Master?” Jazz asked, his voice muffled against Bluestreak’s plating.

                “Hmm. A full week I think. Plenty of time for you to realize the error of your ways,” Bluestreak said, one hand reaching down to cup Jazz’s aft. Because of their height differences, it was easy to continue down between Jazz’s legs, fingers flicking against the very edge of that heated panel one more time. Jazz sighed, his back arching to push himself into the touch.

                “Yes, Master,” Jazz replied softly, vocalizer sounding strained.

                “Ahh… you’re just now realizing how much of a challenge this will be, aren’t you?” Bluestreak commented, amused. He leaned over and gently suckled the tip of the nearest sensory horn, making Jazz buck in place, hips swiveling.

                “I’ll manage, Master.”

                Releasing Jazz, Bluestreak smiled against the top of his head. “I’m sure you will. Just remember to ping me at any time if it becomes too much. We can’t have this interfering with your work.” Bluestreak shifted and slid a thigh between Jazz’s. He immediately ground down against it, moaning.

                “Yes, Master,” Jazz replied faintly. “I won’t disappoint you.”

 

\--

 

                A week passed and Bluestreak had to give it to Jazz. The penultimate actor indeed. Not once had Bluestreak spied Jazz acting any differently when in public. And Bluestreak had pushed his lover, repetitively dragging him into one of their quarters or a storage room and shoving the smaller mech against the wall for short little groping sessions.

                When it was just the two of them, Jazz begged and pleaded to have a release. The last day, those sweet words of desperation came after just a few kisses, so revved up as he was. But when around others, Bluestreak saw not a hint of the frustrated charge coiled up inside Jazz’s lithe frame.

                He even came to Bluestreak’s door for his final appointment all smiles and with a bounce to his step. When Bluestreak opened it, Jazz was turned away, calling a farewell to another mech over his shoulder. Jazz turned back around and gave Bluestreak a brilliant grin.

                “Hey, Blue! Can I come in?” he asked.

                “Sure, Jazz,” Bluestreak replied amiably, his doorwings fluttering a greeting. He stepped to the side and Jazz sauntered in as Bluestreak shut the door behind him. He did it on automatic, watching Jazz move to the center of the room and pause. As soon as the door’s locking mechanism engaged, Jazz dropped to the floor as if a puppet with its strings cut.

                “Master… oh, Master…” Jazz moaned miserably, bending over to rest his weight on his forearms. His aft rose into the air, hips rocking in an attempt to find relief. “Please, Master… please…”

                Bluestreak came up around and stared down at Jazz, crossing his arms over his bumper and raising an orbital ridge. “Please, what? Why are you doing that… you’re acting like some turbohound bitch in heat.”

                “My cover, Master… please… can it be released?” Jazz begged.

                “Oh!” Bluestreak exclaimed, feigning surprise. “Was that supposed to be today? Well, you’ve done so well, I think maybe one more day should do it.”

                Jazz ground his face into the floor, moaning miserably. “Yes, Master,” he whispered, shoulders sagging in defeat.

                “Stay there,” Bluestreak instructed, walking around Jazz towards his storage locker. He puttered around for a few minutes while Jazz panted and writhed in place, whining and groaning. It was music to Bluestreak’s audials, but enough was enough. Jazz wasn’t the only one who had suffered this week. Bluestreak had kept his own interface array locked as well and now he wanted what was rightfully his.

                Jazz startled when Bluestreak knelt behind him, placing a hand on his lower back. “Of course… I’ve been missing that sweet little valve of yours something fierce,” Bluestreak commented idly. “I don’t think I can wait one more day to taste it again.”

                “Oh, Master, yes!” Jazz cried out, lifting his aft even higher into the air. Bluestreak palmed it, thumbs stroking over the burning transformation seams of his interface cover. It practically scorched his digit tips and Bluestreak huffed a little in apprehension of the upcoming next step. Perhaps he hadn’t thought this fully through after all.

                Leaning forward, Bluestreak placed his lips over the farthest corner of the panel and extended his glossa, stroking over the light coat of sealant. Winching a little at the molten sting, Bluestreak endured; after all, Jazz wasn’t the only one who liked a bit of pain in his play.

                “Is… is that how it comes off, Master?” Jazz asked in a choked voice.

                “Yes. Now be quiet and let me work. And don’t expose yourself until I say so,” Bluestreak commanded, lifting his mouth away momentarily.

                “Yes, Master, of course, Master,” Jazz mumbled, ducking his head back down.

                It didn’t take much more than a minute to lick away all the sealant, the substance coded to his oral lubricant. Once done, Bluestreak smacked his stinging lips together and leaned back in satisfaction, watching Jazz’s plating shudder as he fought to keep everything covered. Lubricant was already trickling out of the seams, no longer held in place by the sealant.

                Bluestreak gently stroked the black panel, watching Jazz’s fingers clench into fists, his whole body tensing.

                “Open,” Bluestreak murmured, moving his hand away.

                With a deep-throated groan, Jazz’s panel slid aside. His engorged spike sprang free, wet and dripping, and a veritable flood of lubricant flowed down Jazz’s inner thighs, immediately puddling on the floor. White biolights flickered fitfully in the rim of Jazz’s valve, blinking so quickly that they practically glowed nonstop.

                “I bet that feels better, doesn’t it?” Bluestreak asked, dipping a finger in one of the trails of lubricant. “You have permission to overload. As often as you want until the shift is over,” he announced magnanimously. 

                And then he wrapped his hand around the base of Jazz’s spike, and squeezing, slid his fingers all the way to the tip. Jazz’s climax came with the motion, transfluid splattering onto the floor as he howled his release. Bluestreak stroked him once more and then released him, flicking his fingers to get rid of the excess liquid.

                Allowing his own panel cover to transform aside, Bluestreak shuffled forward and lined up his spike with Jazz’s visibly open valve. One thrust hilted Bluestreak completely and he had to grab hold of Jazz’s hips as he went wild, overloading again with a screech.

                Bluestreak didn’t pause to allow Jazz to finish, merely pulled out and pushed deep again and again, quite enjoying the tight ring of resistance Jazz’s spasming calipers gave him.

                “Master! Master!” Jazz chanted, entire body twitching in oversensitivity. He tried scooting forward, but Bluestreak merely hauled him back and continued pumping into him. His own overload was coiling up quickly in the pit of his belly, and he would not be deterred.

                A hefty slap against Jazz’s aft made him sink back down on his arms, but his body continued to undulate, seemingly uncertain if it wanted to move away or meet every one of Bluestreak’s thrusts.

                “Until the shift is over,” Bluestreak reminded Jazz, panting softly. “You have a lot of pent up charge. And I want every iota of it.”

                Moaning in trepidation, Jazz canted his hips backwards in wordless surrender.


End file.
